There's something really disconcerting about reading the nonfiction
of Tom Wolfe and John McPhee wherein they describe events at which they
are clearly in attendance but write in the third person. Someone
must be overhearing the conversation that Wolfe so brilliantly reproduces
and when folks describe their jobs in a McPhee essay, one assumes they
are describing them to McPhee. Their absence from the text then becomes
more intrusive than their presence would be, but, what the hey, they're
two of the best writers of non-fiction ever to come down the pike, so we
cut them some slack. Infinitely more annoying is the way that every
hack writer on Earth who is assigned to write a profile of someone for
a magazine, begins the piece by describing his own first meeting with the
subject of the story, as if we freakin' care that the author ordered the
shitaki on melba toast and Demi was ten minutes late for the interview.
But topping them all for the most aggravating technique ever created is
Norman Mailer who decided to include himself in his nonfiction but to write
about himself in the third person, as "the reporter." This is not
only a distraction when you are reading, it also just smacks of egotism
run amok. Of course, this is Norman Mailer, the biggest publicity
whore this side of Madonna, so that's exactly what it is, the attention
grabbing stunt of a completely self-absorbed horse's rump.

That said, he does make for an irreverent, even ribald, chronicler of
the 1968 conventions. His celebrity opened doors for him and gave
him access to the placid doings of the GOP conclave in Miami and to the
Democratic melee in Chicago. He uses his own distinctive patois of
street tough language, acerbic commentary and apocalyptic hyperbole to
recreate the mood, if not the actual events of the two conventions.
But his analysis of events is completely laughable, teetering between the
merely absurd and the genuinely deluded. Naturally, he revels in
both the counter culture demonstrations in Chicago and in the somewhat
heavy-handed response of Mayor Daley's police and the National Guard.
Like Charlie Manson believing that Helter Skelter would bring about the
revolution, Mailer thought that this kind of confrontation and the reaction
it provoked revealed something about the strength of the youth movement
on the one hand and weakness of American institutions on the other.
In fact, these were pretty much the death throes of '60s radicalism.
Just a few months later the American people would go to the polls and elect
Richard Nixon, largely on the understanding that he would restore law and
order to American society. And though his margin of victory was quite
thin, it must be recalled that George Wallace received 13.5% of the vote;
and I think it's safe to say that his voters disagreed with the kids who
tried shutting down Chicago. Even as Mailer was predicting a new
and glorious phase in some kind of class struggle, the electorate, the
"silent majority" of Nixon's acceptance speech, was preparing to repudiate
the radical movement by a truly staggering margin.

Interestingly, Mailer accidentally offers intimations of what was going
on in the rest of the country when he is too revealing about what was going
on within himself. The two most honest moments in the book are when
he expresses how sick he is of listening to the demands of Black leaders:

[T]he reporter became aware after a while of a curious
emotion in himself, for he had not ever
felt it consciously before--it was a simple emotion
and very unpleasant to him--he was getting
tired of Negroes and their rights. It was
a miserable recognition, and on many a count, for if even
he felt this way, then what immeasurable tides of
rage must be loose in America itself?

Note both the utter condescension to the unwashed masses and the visceral
sense that things had gone far enough. Add in the fact that most
Americans were also sick of listening to limousine liberals like Norman
Mailer tell them what to do, when they knew perfectly well that he felt
like this in his heart of hearts, and the rage is only compounded.
Mailer's slip peeks out again during the violence in Chicago when he acknowledges
an illicit thrill at watching the police hammer protesters into submission.
These instances offer him a chance to understand what is truly going on
in the country, but his knees jerk and he goes right back to singing a
Dionysian song of praise to the scum in the streets.

A journalist who gets so involved in a story that he misjudges it by
as much as Mailer did is hardly worthy of the title. Instead, the
author was a partisan observer whose analytical skills appear to be nonexistent
and whose judgment appears to have been clouded by emotion, but whose hands
on approach to the story makes for a whiff of the atmospherics of the time
and some mildly interesting moments.